Scarpaw and the Philosophers Stone
by Hippocampus13
Summary: Scarpaw thinks he is an ordinary cat. He lives with Uncle Max, Aunt Daisy and his cousin, Rocky who make him sleep in a shoebox under the stairs. Then Scarpaw starts receiving mysterious letters and his life is changed forever. He is whisked away by a beetle-eyed giant of a cat and sent to HogwartClan. The reason: Scarpaw is a Wizard Cat!
1. The Cat Who Lived part 1

Max and Daisy, cats at number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal cats, thank you very much. They were the last cats you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they didn't hold with such nonsense.

Max was the proud cat of the director of Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big beefy cat with hardly any neck although he did have a large amount of body fur. Daisy was thin and lean and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much time looking down on the neighbor's cats. Max and Daisy had a small kit called Rocky and in their opinion there was no finer kit anywhere.

Max and Daisy had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if somebody found out about Daisy's sister. Even though she was Daisy's sister they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Daisy pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing mate were as abnormal as it was possible to be. Max and Daisy shuddered to think what the neighbours cats would say if Daisy's sister and her mate arrived in the street. Max and Daisy knew that Daisy's sister had a small kit, too, but they had never seen him. This kit was another reason for keeping Daisy's sister away; they didn't want Rocky mixing with a kit like that.

When Max and Daisy woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Max mewed happily as he got ready for his morning stroll and Daisy gossiped away happily as she made a screaming Rocky eat his food. None of them noticed a large painted lady butterfly flutter past the window. At half past eight, Max licked Daisy on the cheek and tried to lick Rocky goodbye but he missed, because Rocky was now having a tantrum and throwing his food at the walls. 'Little tyke," chortled Max as he left the house via the cat flap. He started walking out of the number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map. For a second Max didn't realize what he had seen- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? He still approached the she-cat and asked her calmly, "Where you just reading a map?"

"No," the tabby she-cat stated plainly. As Max started walking the other way he glanced behind him and watched the cat. It was now reading the sign which he knew said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. He knew that as a fact, since he had tried it himself. Max gave himself a little shake and put the strange, new cat out of his mind. As he walked on he thought of nothing else but were he would walk today.

But on the edge of town, his walk was driven out of his mind by something else. As he walked along his normal path he kept noticing there was some strange smelling cats around. Cats that smelled like the wild. Max couldn't bear cats who went into forests - the stupid things young cats did! He supposed there was some new park. He plodded along and his eyes fell on a huddle of these strange cats standing close by. They were mewing excitedly together. Max was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that cat had to be older than he was, and smelt like he had just killed a mouse! The nerve of him! But then it struck Max this was just some cats from a rescue centre - these cats were obviously just rescued from the wild… yes, that would be it. Max moved onwards, and a few minutes later, Max arrived at favourite resting spot, his mind on his relaxation.

Max always sat with his back to the park on his extremely high wall. If he hadn't, he may have found it harder to concentrate on relaxation that morning. He didn't see the butterflies swooping past in large groups, though twolegs and cats in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as butterfly after butterfly sped overhead. Most of them hadn't seen a butterfly even at daytime. Max, however, had a perfectly normal, butterfly-free morning. He hissed at five different cats. He cleaned himself from head to tail and hissed a bit more. He was in good mood until lunchtime, where he thought he'd stretch his legs and go home to eat.

He'd forgotten all about the strange smelling cats until he passed a group of them next to his house. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him feel uneasy. This lot were mewing excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collar. It was on his way back past them, food in his mouth, when he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"Crowpelt and Flameflower, that's right, that's what I heard -"

"- yes, their kit, Scarkit -"

Max stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the mewers as if wanting to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed his way across the pavement to the wall he sat on, hissed at cats nearby not to disturb him, seized a cat and almost told him to send a message to number four, Privet Drive when he changed his mind. He put down the cat down and licked himself, thinking … no, he was being stupid. Crowpelt and Flameflower could be someone else. He was sure there were other cats called Crowpelt and Flameflower who had a kit called Scarkit. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure his nephew was called Scarkit. He'd never seen the kit. It might have been Shadowkit. Or Sunkit. There was no point in worrying Daisy, she always got so upset at the mention of her sister. He didn't blame her - if he'd had a sister like that … but all the same, those cats with strange scents…

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on relaxation that afternoon, when he left the wall at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked into someone just under the wall.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old tom stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Max realized the tom had a smell of the wild about him. He didn't seem upset about being knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and mewed in a squeaky voice that made cats passing by stare: "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Kittypets like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old tom licked Max and walked off.

Max stood rooted to the spot. He'd been licked by a complete strange. He also thought he had been called a Kittypet, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his twoleg's car and set off home, hoping that he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he walked into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw - and it didn't improve his mood - was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his owners garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same scent.

Max hissed loudly at the cat.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Who did this cat think it was? Max wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he walked through the cat flap. He was still determined not to mention anything to his mate.

Daisy had had a nice, normal day. She told him, over their dinner of bland food, all about the cat next door's problems with her kit and how Rocky had learnt how to mew 'Shan't'. Max had tried to act normally. When Rocky was fast asleep, he went into the living-room to get stroked by his owner, Mr Dursley. Mr Dursley was watching the evening news and Max couldn't help but overhear:

"And finally, insect-experts everywhere have reported that the nations butterflies have been behaving very unusually today. Although butterflies are normally seen on their own, their have been hundreds of sightings of these insects flying in every direction, in large packs, since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the butterflies have suddenly started flying in groups." The newsreader allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of butterflies, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the butterflies that are acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Max sat frozen, his owner stroking his head. Shooting stars all over Britain? Butterflies flying in large groups? Mysterious cats with strange scents all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about Flameflower and Crowpelt…

Max came into the sitting room. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er - Daisy, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he expected, Daisy looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she mewed sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the Twoleg's news," Max mumbled. "Butterflies… shooting stars… and there were a lot of funny-smelling cats in town today…"

"So?" snapped Daisy.

"Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… her lot."

Daisy turned away from Max and started grooming herself. Max wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the names "Flameflower and Crowpelt." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he asked, as casually as he could, "Their kit - he'd be about Rocky's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," mewed Daisy stiffly, not turning around.

"What's his name again? Shellkit, isn't it?"

"Scarkit. Nasty, uncommon name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," mewed Max, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went to go to sleep. While, Daisy was settling down to sleep, Max crept to the window and peered down into the front garden. The strange she-cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it was waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with Flameflower and Crowpelt? If it did… if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn't think he could bear it.

Max and Daisy got ready to sleep. Daisy fell asleep quickly but Max lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if Flameflower and Crowpelt were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Daisy. Flameflower and Crowpelt knew very well what he and Daisy thought about them and their kind… He couldn't see how he and Daisy could get involved in anything that might be going on. He yawned and turned over. It couldn't affect them…

How very wrong he was.


	2. The Cat Who Lived part 2

Max might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the tabby she-cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a metal monsters door slammed in the next street, nor when around fifty butterflies swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

Another cat arrived on the corner the she-cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The tabby cat's tail twitched and her eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this tom had ever been seen in Privet Drive. He was quite large, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his pelt. He smelled strange, like the wild. On his neck was no collar. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind his strange half-moon spectacles, which looked out of place on his face. This cat's name was Bumblestar.

Bumblestar didn't seem to realise he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his spectacles was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in a large bag he was dragging, looking for something. But he did seem to realise he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the tabby she-cat, who was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the other cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He had found what he was looking for in his large bag. It seemed to be a twoleg silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open with his teeth, held it up in the air, still in his teeth, and clicked it. The nearest street light went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Daisy, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Bumblestar slipped the Put-Outer back inside his bag and set off along the street towards number four, dragging the bag along after him, where he sat down on the wall next to the other cat. He didn't look at her, but after a moment he spoke to her.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor Owlfeather," He turned to smile at the tabby.

"How did you know it was me? There are a lot of tabby cats in this world," she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat, other than yourself, sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," mewed Professor Owlfeather.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen celebrations on my way here."

Professor Owlfeather sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone celebrating, all right," she mewed impatiently. "You'd think they'd be more careful, but no - even the Kittypets and Twolegs have noticed something's going on. It was on the Twoleg news." She jerked her head back at number four's dark living-room window. "I heard it. Large groups of butterflies… shooting stars… Well they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I bet you that was Smallstripe. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," meowed Bumblestar gently. "We've precious little to celebrate for eleven years.

"I know that," meowed Professor Owlfeather irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even hiding their scents, swapping rumours."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Bumblestar here, as if hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on: "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Kittypets found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Bumblestar?"

"It certainly seems so," mewed Bumblestar. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"

"A what?"

"A sherbet lemon. They are a kind of Twoleg sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," meowed Professor Owlfeather coldly, as though she didn't think this was the time for sherbet lemons. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone there is still the matter of Shadowkit-"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this "You-Know-Who" nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade cats to call him by his proper name: Snakestar." Professor Owlfeather flinched, but Dumbldore, who was attempting to unstick sherbet lemons with his teeth, seemed not to noticed. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying "You-Know-Who". I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Snakestar's name."

"I know you haven't," mewed Professor Owlfeather, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know - oh, all right, Snakestar - was frightened of."

"You flatter me," meowed Bumblestar calmly. "Snakestar has powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too - well - noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Leafeye said told me she liked the earmuffs I took from Twolegs."

Professor Owlfeather shoot a sharp look at Bumblestar and meowed, "The butterflies are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor Owlfeather had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all day, for she had never fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Bumblestar told her it was true. Bumblestar, however, was taking another sherbet lemon out of his bag and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Snakestar turned up in Grffinflight's Hollow. He went to find Flameflower and Crowpelt. The rumour is that Flameflower and Crowpelt are - are - that they're - dead."


	3. The Cat Who Lived part 3

Bumblestar bowed his head. Professor Owlfeather gasped.

"Flameflower and Crowpelt… I can't believe it … I don't want to believe it… Oh, Bumblestar…"

Bumblestar reached out and gently shared tongues with her. "I know… I know…" he mewed heavily.

Professor Owlfeather's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill Scarkit. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little kit. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Scarkit, Snakestar's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone."

Bumblestar nodded glumly.

"It's - it's true?" faltered Professor Owlfeather. "After all he's done… all the people he's killed… he couldn't kill a little kit? Some cats are saying it's something to do with Shadowkit being around the same age as Scarkit. But it's still astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of heaven did Scarkit survive?"

"We can only guess," meowed Bumblestar. "We may never know."

Professor Owlfeather took a lace handkerchief out of thin air and dabbed at her eyes. Bumblestar gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch out of his bag and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead little planets were moving round the edge. It must have made sense to Bumblestar, though, because he put it back in his bag and mewed, "Bearstorm's late. I suppose it was he you told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," mewed Professor Owlfeather. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Scarkit to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor Owlfeather jumping to her feet and pointing her tail at number four. "Bumblestar-you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two cats who are less like us. And they've got a son-I saw him biting his mother all the way up the street, yowling for treats. Scarkit come live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Bumblestar firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor Owlfeather faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Bumblestar, these Kittypets probably can't read! Even if they could who could you explain it in a letter? These cats will never understand him! He'll be famous - even more than Shadowkit - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Scarkit Day in the future - there will be books written about Scarkit - every kit in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," mewed Bumblestar, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn a kit's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! You know how it turned out with Shadowkit! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor Owlfeather opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed and then said, "Yes - yes, you're right, of course. But how is the kit getting here, Bumblestar?" She eyed his bag as though she thought he might be hiding Scarkit in it.

"Bearstorm's bringing him."

"You think it - wise - to trust Bearstorm with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Bearstorm with my life," said Bumblestar.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor Owlfeather grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight of a twoleg monster; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a ,smaller than twoleg size but still big for a cat, motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the pavement in front of them.

If the motorbike was large, it was nothing to the tom driving it. He was the size of a dog, a large one, and twice as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long clumps of matted fur in almost all natural colours for a cat. His paws were big enough to squash a whole rat with one swat. In the sidecar of a motor cycle was a bundle of blankets.

"Bearstorm," meowed Bumblestar, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorbike?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Bumblestar, sir," said the giant cat, climbing from the motorbike and scooping up the bundle of blankets as he spoke. "Young Purpletentacle lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir - house was almost destroyed but I got him out all right before the Kittypets and Twolegs started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Bumblestar and a Professor Owlfeather bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a black kit, fast asleep. Under a tuft of his fur over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor Owlfeather.

"Yes," mewed Bumblestar. "That's the scar StarClan named him by. He'll have it for ever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Bumblestar?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself on my right, back paw which is a perfect map of a Twoleg pet store. Well - give him here, Bearstorm - we'd better get this over with."

Bumblestar picked Scarkit up by the scruff of his neck and turned towards the Twoleg nest of Max and Daisy.

"Could I - could I say goodbye to home, sir?" asked Bearstorm.

Bumblestar nodded.

Bearstorm bent his great, shaggy head over Scarkit and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery, friendly lick. Then suddenly, Bearstorm let out a howl like the dog, which he resembled in size.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor Owlfeather. "You'll wake the Kittypets sand Twolegs!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Bearstorm, trying to rub the tears out of eyes with his huge paws. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Flameflower an' Crowpelt dead - an' poor little Scarkit off ter live with Kittypets -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Bearstorm, or we'll be found," Professor Owlfeather mewed quietly, gingerly sharing tongues with Bearstorm as Bumblestar plodded up to the front door. He laid Scarkit gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his oversized bag, tucked it inside Scarkit's blankets and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Bearstorm's large shoulders shook, Professor Owlfeather blinked furiously and the twinkling light that usually shone from Bumblestar's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," meowed Bumblestar finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," meowed Bearstorm in a very muffled voice. "I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor Owlfeather - Professor Bumblestar, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes with his paw, Bearstorm jumped up onto the motorbike and kicked the engine to life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor Owlfeather," mewed Bumblestar, nodding to her. Professor Owlfeather blew her nose in reply.

Bumblestar turned and walked down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He licked it once in his mouth and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange, like the setting sun, and he could make up a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the steps of number four.

"Good luck, Scarkit," he mewed softly. He turned sharply and within a flash he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Scarkit rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small paw closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was anyone special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he'd be woken in a few hours time by Daisy's scream as she walked out to stretch her legs, nor that he would spend the next few days being bitten and scratched by his cousin Rocky … He didn't know at this very moment, cats meeting in secret all over the country were eating fresh-kill and mewing in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!"


	4. The Forgotten Kit

"Scarkit?" the voice of a young kit broke the endless silence. "Crowpelt's kit? He's the one who defeated him? He's just a kit!"

"He's not even a year younger than you and you've almost destroyed the world twice!" came the voice of a older tom.

The old tom approached the young kit. He stared through the bars to the small thing that had caused so much trouble. This young she-cat had never seen the light of day but still everyone outside felt sympathetic towards her.

"They wouldn't be sympathetic if they met her," the grey tom said in his head.

"I sincerely advise you to not think that thought. I don't like it," the coal-black kit said as if she could read minds.

"Well what can you do about it? You are in a cell. You don't have a wand. You are a kit."

The kit sat down as if to ponder what the guard said. She thought for some time. The guard was getting restless. He had to patrol the whole of this prison not just this kits cell.

The guard started plodding off towards the other side of the prison.

"I've got it!" the kit exclaimed.

"What?"

"Something I've got which you haven't. It's quite simple when you think about it."

"Well then, what is it? I haven't got all day."

"Come here so I can whisper it. I don't want the other cats to hear about my secret weapon."

The guard looked around. The other prisoners were either raving mad or had lost the will to live. He didn't think the cats here would eavesdrop but listening to this little kit was better than patrolling these corridors aimlessly.

The old grey tom walked towards the young kits cell wondering what she was going to say.

"So what is it?" the guard whispered impatiently his ear next to the young kits mouth.

"What I have got is something you and the other guards don't know about and defiantly don't have."

"What is it?" whispered the guard impatiently. Maybe patrolling the corridors was better than listening to this mad kit.

"It's a… brain,"

"What?!" said the guard but it was too late. The kits claws were already dig into his neck. The guard was shrieking in pain but nobody heard him. He was the only guard on duty and the prisoners were either raving mad or had lost the will to live.

Laughter rung through the guards ears. It was the last thing he'd hear before he passed into Starclan. The laughter of the kit, the laughter of the prisoners. It seemed that a lot of the prisoners weren't raving mad and hadn't lost the will to live. That would make an interesting report the guard thought as he passed into Starclan.

"Scarkit will wish he had died once he meets me," the kit exclaimed. "He will wish he had never heard the name Shadowkit!"


End file.
